


these are just ghosts that broke my heart before i met you

by theviolonist



Category: Veronica Mars (Movie 2014), Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: Army, Character Study, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-18
Updated: 2014-03-18
Packaged: 2018-01-16 03:44:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1330711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theviolonist/pseuds/theviolonist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the army they say, don't think of the target as a person, otherwise you won't have the guts to pull the trigger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	these are just ghosts that broke my heart before i met you

Right, so, it's like this: 

Dick slumping farther into the couch like a thirty-year-old teenager with Grand Theft Auto on the screen, saying, "Nothing better than shooting stuff to help your anger issues, right, Charles Manson?" because Dick might be, well, Dick, but he's also been around since you were both in nappies. 

And -- "Gimme that knife, killer," when you try to make lasagna for some girl-of-the-week who you kind of like, who kind of likes you, though not enough to tear your heart to pieces, because since you were eighteen you learned that you don't need to fuck and flee every time to not get royally fucked over, you just need to choose them well, spot the telltale signs of fear of commitment and regular boyfriends with lacking bedroom skills. 

And every time there's a fight in a bar and you ache to join in, not even for justice, not to protect or defend or that same old lie you told yourself every time you beat one of Veronica's old suitors to a pulp, just because of the ache in your fists and the weight of your teeth in your mouth and the steady pumping of blood in your heart, you. are. not. aaron. 

Except.

That day every year where you unearth every fucking film he's ever made and don't mourn his death, because, well, there's nothing to mourn but he was your _father_ , that day every year for ten years when you drink as much alcohol as it takes to stop the images from pouring in, Lily with her burning dazzling glittering smile while she was fucking your father and _him_ with his belt and that one time he said he was proud of you, son and his fucking bong he made in glass-blowing class and Veronica Mars, of course, because what would a Logan Echolls pity party be without Miss Holier-than-Thou herself, and on that day you can even forget that you've told yourself you weren't mad at her anymore, not after all this time, it wouldn't make sense.

-

Or, well, maybe it's like this:

Seventeen and Neptune is full of liars and thieves, and you don't have anything better to do than stand on the bridge and think, _like mother, like son_ while the PCHers crowd around you with Veronica's attack dog at the helm. They don't give a shit that you want to punish yourself. They'll be happy to do it for you. It's jump on one side and break your bones in the clogged waters which have been dragged far too many times for bodies; or jump on the other and get the chance to fight back, with the crowbar you're twirling in your hands and your shit-eating smirk and all the hatred that's filling your lungs. 

Not much of a choice, is it? 

Then it's ten years later and every day of those three years is still seared in your memory and it's _that_ , not a need to become well-adjusted all of a sudden, not a burning desire to serve your country, not even that you're bored of the tabloids saying that you do nothing all day but fuck every available starlet because, well, the paparazzi have been around forever and there's no smoke without fire and it's not like you care, really, about what they say (you don't. You might care that it's the only source of information for her in wherever she is, keeping tabs and pretending she's only doing it for continuity's sake), that makes you walk into the recruitment office and say that you want to enlist.

As Dick so eloquently puts it, "What the fuck, dude?"

-

It makes... it makes a little sense. You've never been crazy about authority figures but it's not like that's ever turned out great, and shooting stuff _is_ fun. You pass basic, just barely, because you're still Logan Echolls and hell will be frozen over before you ever graduate with honors from anything; they say you're insolent and reckless but you're also good at withstanding pain and crawling through mud is a nice childhood throwback.

Dick makes a face and Carrie shrugs, out of her mind with coke and whatever demons she can't exorcise these days. She says, "The Navy?" and she fingers your uniform, leaving invisible blueprints you want to brush off as soon as they seep into the fabric, because you can't love people who aren't toxic as fuck, it's just in your DNA. 

But you like it: you like not having your face stare back at you every morning in the tabloid rags, Problem Child Logan Echolls Strikes Again even though you're not a child anymore but Neptune will never let you grow up, won't give up your babyfaced mistakes without a fight; you like the endlessness of the sea and its neutrality and its emptiness, the silence and the salt; you like the rigidity of the orders, not all of them, of course, but the crisp paper that tells you how long you'll be gone, dead to the world for all the world cares. It's a nice way of disappearing.

-

No way of thinking. Logan Echolls before this was qualified for precious little except witty banter and drinking until you passed out, stayed for hours staring vacantly at the TV and trying not to let your head run too wild – now the only time you get to think is at night and you fall face-first onto your bunk and sleep 'til first light. The other soldiers don't know you, haven't heard, wouldn't care anyway; their stories are pleasantly devoid of sharp-tongued blonde minxes and apocalyptic high school experiences. 

At home Carrie needs to be taken by the hand and laid to sleep, and on her you use all the kindness you have left, the kindness you have for sinking things that's not too marred with anger. You answer her texts and you sigh at pictures of her trashed and sans underwear on TV, feeling grown-up and almost responsible now that the devil on your shoulder doesn't whisper at you to take a swing at that drunk guy trying to get laid with or without prior consent. Look at that. It's almost like you're a real boy. 

-

Or maybe, maybe it's like this:

In the army they say, don't think of the target as a person, otherwise you won't have the guts to pull the trigger, but you -- you've never been one to resist a challenge, tamed or not, and you're not everyone else. 

_Veronica. Put the gun down._

One for Beaver. One for your father. One for Lily Kane. One for Piznarski and his stupid fucking sextape. One for the epic love stories you have at sixteen that ruin you for life. 

_I need you, Logan. I need you._

One for Carrie who won't let you take a breath before getting murdered in her bathroom two weeks after you come back, electricity travelling from her fingers to yours, shocking you still. One for Carrie who used to sing about anchors and sinking ships, who had secrets she wouldn't trade for anything. 

One more for Veronica Mars, because she fucking deserves it. 

Hit the bullseye. 

In the army they say, don't think of the target as a person, otherwise you won't have the guts to pull the trigger. But what else is there to think about? 

-

It's a calculated decision, showing up at the airport in dress whites, hat under the arm, back rigid and one more fucking second and you'd have had the salute ready, Major Echolls, at your service Ma'am.

Yeah – it's a way to say, _look how I've changed, how much better I am, guess you were wrong, huh?_ to her, and _you're not sixteen anymore_ to yourself, lest you think it wise to fall back into the clusterfuck that is love for Veronica Mars. 

And then her silhouette cuts through the light at the terminal, and you remember: you never really stopped.


End file.
